


easy

by catastrophiclouds



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Depressed Harry, Harry-centric, I Don't Even Know, No Romance, Other, Random & Short, Sad Harry, Suicidal Harry, Suicide, Young Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:52:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3951319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catastrophiclouds/pseuds/catastrophiclouds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very short story of a very sad boy who decides to end it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	easy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.

It’s 12:28am and Harry is holding a pile of pills.

He sits on the ledge of his bathtub, tears rolling down his cheeks like old photographs being thrown away, burnt to a crisp, memories drifting towards the blazing sun like ashes, like dust.

His right hand shakes miserably as he clutches onto the beady white pills, creamy and tempting, almost sickly inviting, as if they had forced him to free them from their capsule and effortlessly pour them into his hand. As if he doesn’t really have any choice and the motions he glides through seamlessly were already planned and calculated. As if ending his life is just another thing out of all the things Harry and other humans do, equivalent to something as simple as blinking or something as tragic as falling in love.

Speaking of falling, Harry had decided earlier that he doesn’t want to do it that way. End it all. He could have gone to the bridge downtown painted red but is now a fading, rusty brown, or the tallest building in the neighborhood with the doors to the roof always open because that’s where all the stoners hang out, or that one cliff on the outskirts of town that leans over a hundred feet. He could have gone there, yet he didn’t, because doing it in the bathroom he shares with his sister with the baby blue tiled floor and the plastic ivory shower curtain just seems easier, and that’s what Harry has always wanted.

Easy.

His entire life, he has been faced with the most difficult obstacles; since an individual should be able to successfully overcome and recover from hardships as brutal as those Harry has been challenged with, one would actually not think to call them “obstacles”, due to the fact that Harry is not okay. He has not overcome, recovered or learned anything from his struggles. He has never been okay and he doesn’t think he ever will be and that is why he is sitting on the ledge of his bathtub with tears rolling down his cheeks at, now, 12:30am, a pile of pills poured into his sweaty palm.

The frigid floor cools Harry’s bare feet, causing a group of chills to aimlessly travel from the nape of his neck, down to his spine and back. He shivers and sobs, sobs and shivers, hacking up soft, weeping cries from deep down in his diaphragm, untold secrets and sacrifices bundled up into a sack of sparks, budging their way out, begging to be fireworks. Begging to explode into the night sky — the burning black canvas splattered with stars…to be free at last. To be easy.

He tilts up his head, where a mop and mess of many curls lie upon, swooshing and swerving in so many directions and Harry is never able to control them and that bothers Harry and as he looks at himself in the mirror pasted on the medicine cabinet above the sink, he groans, low and rattling, rumbling with lost wishes and unsatisfying outcomes. His emerald eyes gleam in the dimness of the commodious bathroom, shielded with red lines that resemble lightning, quick flashes of anger and angst ricocheting from his irises, off of the mirror, and back into his heart and soul, where utter emptiness is profound. It’s all oddly ironic; it’s as if he can feel how empty he is inside, how he terrifically lacks of the power and strength he needs to continue this life here on earth, this hard, hard life he wants so very much to be easy but refuses to be.

What he doesn’t understand is that, how can he feel something that isn’t there? How can he feel the pain of love when he’s not receiving any? How can he feel the bruises of confidence when he doesn’t have any? Or the shocks of the friends he’ll never have? The pushes of the father he’s never known? The dull remembrances of the dreams he’s never seen? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. He has absolutely no idea.

So, as he stares back at the ghost in the mirror with the shallow eyes and the fragile frown, the ghost that is himself, he shivers and sobs and sobs and shivers some more, hoping the pills will go down easily. Easy. Because that’s all he has ever hoped for.

But then, as if previously rehearsed by the Gods and his sister — Gemma — herself, a knocking comes from the locked door.

“Haz? C’mon, get out, I gotta take a piss,” She says so sternly, so bothered. Her voice reminds Harry of the screaming lawn mower or the chirping birds that wake him up in the early morning, or the dog that barks way too loudly for way too long at way too late at night next door.

He rids himself of the thoughts and fills his mind with other contemplations; should he rush and swallow the pills now, leaving Gemma to wait with bending legs and shaking hips, fantasizing of letting all of her liquids out, just waiting for her damn brother to open the damn door of the loo and then finally realizing, after about thirty seconds of vivid daydreams, that the door is not going to open unless she starts to shout?

So, she’ll begin to pound on the door and yell, obviously annoyed. And when Harry still doesn’t answer, she’ll start to twist and turn the knob of the door, attempting to somehow, possibly, push it open with all of her power. And when that doesn’t work, she’ll then call for her tired mum who sits in the living room, cotton pajamas covering her long limbs and reading glasses perched upon her thin nose. Her mum will stomp over to the bathroom door with her eyes repeatedly rolling to the back of her head, sighs systematically exiting passed her previously pursed lips, asking Gemma what all of the fuss is about and, completely done with the drama between her two children, order Harry to come out of the bathroom so his sister can get in. When neither Gemma nor Anne — his mother — hear a reply, they will both begin to grow nervous, a sudden wave of heat rushing over the tops of their heads and down to their toes, the very tips, the ends of their existence. Short moments will pass and Anne will then proceed to frantically call for her son, slamming her exhausted hands against the aged wood of the door and Gemma will soon learn to follow her actions. The door will eventually be knocked down, roaring and screeching, allowing the two women to face what lies behind it; Harry’s dead body, limp and breathless on the tile, foam spilling out of his mouth and eyes open wide with tear stained cheeks. Torturous wails from Anne will then mark up each wall, silent cries with a hand clapped over her agape mouth from Gemma will then tear down the barrier between the best and the worst things Gemma will do and Harry will not, never, ever, for eternity. The ambulance will, soon enough, be called, after Anne collapses to the hardwood, drowning in a puddle of her tears. Gemma will be the one to call the ambulance, her voice shaking along with her hands, her heart, bouncing in her chest, attaching itself to a balloon; a balloon that carries her heart away and then deflates, letting her heart fall fast and furiously back into her chest, knocking the breath out of her as forcefully as she had knocked on the bathroom door, before her voice shook and before she knew her brother was dead.

Or, should he put the pills away, wipe up his tears and fling open the door with his eyes glued to the floor, allowing his dancing sister to push passed him and slam the door behind her?

He decides to go with the second option, but as he shuffles to drop the pills back into their orange bottle of a home, makes a mental note that he will do this tonight. He will die tonight. He will because he has to.

“Sorry,” he mumbles to his sister as he casts open the door, head down.

Gemma only moans and slams the door shut behind her, just as he had expected.

As he begins to walk towards his bedroom, the one he has had ever since he was a fatherless five year old clutching a teddy bear, Harry realizes that what he is doing isn't right.

No, he doesn't mean ending it. Ending it all. That is right, leaving everything behind is right, dying tonight is just so right that Harry cannot bare to see the familiar walls of his yellow childhood room just minutes before he can’t see at all. That is just wrong, so he spins on his heel and strides towards the foyer, passing the living room, where his mother sits in the worn-in couch that holds too many memories. Harry glances at his mother once before entering the foyer.

He can’t stay here.

He can’t do it here.

He just can’t.

Someone once told him that eyes are the only thing that never age. So, as he studies his mother’s dull eyes under the reading glasses she wears, he comes to the conclusion that if he does this here, if he lets his own mother find him lifeless on the floor, her eyes will inevitably grow older and weaker, no matter what anyone says.

He puts on his shoes.

“Where are you going?” His mum speaks in monotone, not once looking up from the electronic reader she clutches. Harry stops in his tracks, slows his actions as he digs his right heel into his tattered brown boot. Those boots have been everywhere; from the time Harry had lost his virginity to the time Harry had lost his mind to now, the time Harry loses his own life — his last breath, his last look, his last touch.

“Out,” he answers, his heart breaking, crashing down on top of the rest of his nothingness; the empty stomach with the empty ambitions and the empty soul.

“When will you be back?”

He puts on his coat and doesn’t answer, swinging open the door and stepping out of the house.

He’ll just have to do it somewhere else.


End file.
